


Deserving

by IneffableDoll



Series: Breakdown [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Panic Attacks, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Hatred, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), complicated feelings about the word “love”, give your angel a hug!!!!!!!!, seriously fuck them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: “I’ve always reminded you, again and again, that I’m an angel and you’re a demon,” Aziraphale whispered, “but…neither of us deserve to be what we are.”Crowley made some sort of sound in the back of his throat, one of those ones Aziraphale had always loved interpreting. Now, he had no idea. He couldn’t think about it. He was simply tired. Drained, hollowed out. He didn’t want to fight anymore.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Breakdown [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985194
Comments: 26
Kudos: 178





	Deserving

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote almost all of this back in August, but then I got distracted writing [Painstakingly Drafted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440074) and forgot about it. Finally got around to it again and gave it an ending. This fic is very difficult to describe, but hopefully it’s a first step toward healing for our poor angel. I’m sure it’s been done much better by many others, but that’s no reason not to give it a go, yeah?  
> (Is my brand now that I exclusively write love confessions or panic attack fics…? It feels like those are my only variants.)  
> Trigger Warnings: panic attacks, self-loathing, and past emotional manipulation/abuse (by Heaven). The first of these is inspired by my own experiences. Please take care of yourselves!

Sometimes, coins, despite all reason and expectation, land on the edge. They land on the edge, that thin strip, teetering and bobbing and weaving. A third side, rotating endlessly. The third side of the coin that is somehow connected to one and the other, yet separate.

Aziraphale knows this, and he knows that the coin falls one way eventually.

For this brief moment, this blink in the span of the universe, he and Crowley sat, balanced on the razor’s tip between Heaven and Hell, in a paper-thin liminal space. Belonging to neither. And though they waited, knowing this was temporary, it no longer mattered which way the coin fell.

The bus arrived at its destination, which, despite appearances, was not Oxford, and Aziraphale forced himself to consider the now, and not what was to come.

Leading the way off the public transit, some small part of his brain reminded him to toss a blessing in the direction of the driver. Following closely behind, shoulders hunched, his soot-covered, extremely tired demon seemed to be sinking with every step. His normal swagger had nearly evaporated, with Crowley seeming to be reminding his corporation that each step must be followed by another.

Aziraphale’s heart leapt sympathetically, and once they were both off the bus, he said, “You’re exhausted, my dear. Let’s get you in for a lie down, yes?”

Crowley didn’t even have the energy for some teasing remark, for he simply nodded and led the way stumbling into the building looming before them. The ride in the lift and subsequent brief jaunt through the hall was silent but not uncomfortable, not until Crowley suddenly stopped and Aziraphale ran into him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, stepping back. “Sorry, dear.”

Crowley tossed a weary grin over his shoulder. “My bad, angel. Just rather forgot that I melted a demon in holy water earlier…somehow, one of the least exciting things I did today.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows jumped up. “You what, now?” But now that he’d said it, the angel could sense the holy water nearby, and the ilk mixed within it – acrid as a melted demon would be, the water untainted in holiness and swirling like water and oil. Not quite touching, yet not quite separate – no time to consider that metaphor.

Aziraphale had a million questions, but none of them made it out of his mouth as he silently stepped past Crowley and miracled the mess away. “Oh, I do hope the ground hasn’t become consecrated. Would be rather inconvenient for you, I imagine.”

“Not sure it matters,” Crowley replied with a shrug, pointedly stepping in the spot as he crossed the threshold. “Looks like my feet live to see another day! Can’t promise the same for the rest of me.”

Aziraphale could hardly blame him for the fatalistic attempt at humor. Nonetheless, he tsked. “None of that. Get yourself comfortable and I’ll get the wine. I assume you keep the bottles in the same place?”

Crowley obligingly led the way to the sitting room with an adjacent kitchen and tossed himself over the leather sofa unceremoniously, flinging his glasses off in the process. They disappeared before they hit the floor. “You know the way, angel, though you know I’ve got stronger stuff than wine, and if ever there was an occasion…”

“Point taken,” the angel acquiesced breezily, returning shortly after, beset with three different, potent liquors and two glasses.

Aziraphale poured them each a drink, but as Crowley was currently sprawled and half-dazed as he was, he simply set the rum on the end table, for whenever the demon felt up for it. With a huff, seeing how Crowley was taking up the whole sofa, he simply lifted the leg Crowley had jutting out enough to sit down and placed the leg back over his thighs.

Crowley, who could have been in REM seconds earlier, snapped to attention and watched as Aziraphale calmly took a sip of a searing whiskey, clucking his tongue approvingly. It was a Redbreast Lustau, more recent than their usual indulgences, but with a tart marzipan undertone and a dark fruitiness he really couldn’t complain about.

He felt the exhaustion of the day settling over his mind like a haze of dust, but he had no intention of sleeping that night – even if he’d thought to indulge. Not with the prophecy to figure out, and as Crowley clearly needed sleep, then he needed to be awake in case anyone came knocking.

Not that they’d likely knock, first.

So deeply entrenched in his thoughts was the angel that he didn’t even notice that Crowley had downed his glass, tossed his glasses aside, and was staring at Aziraphale while equally lost on a completely different train of thought. The angel was only made aware when Crowley cleared his throat and they made brief eye contact before Crowley looked away.

“Yes, my dear?”

The demon flinched and muttered something.

“What was that?”

“I said that I’m...ugh, I’m sorry,” he mumbled into his empty glass, willing it to fill, which it happily obliged. 

Crowley had apologized earlier, too. _Whatever it is I said, I’m sorry_. Crowley didn’t tend to apologize, not with words – not very demonic, that – and now he had twice in the same day.

Aziraphale _ached._

“What in the world for?” the angel murmured, tapping an absent finger on his tumbler. “I hardly think _you_ have anything to apologize for, Crowley.”

He shrugged, noncommittal even now, when all conceptual need for façade had evaporated. “For…letting the bookshop burn. For not keeping you safe.”

Aziraphale felt his heartbeat quicken unnecessarily. Guilt gnawed at him painfully, making his stomach churn, and he decided he didn’t really want any whiskey, actually.

After everything, after a hundred lifetimes of friendship, and connecting, and understanding each other and coming to trust one another, Aziraphale had told him there was _no our side._ Crowley had tried and tried and tried so hard, and Aziraphale had rejected him at every turn. And now, Crowley thought he had to apologize for it.

No.

“Don’t be silly,” the angel replied softly, clasping his hands to control their trembling. “You haven’t ever done anything wrong, least of all in this past week. I’m the one who owes you an apology, after all. I’m sorry.”

It was Crowley’s turn to look confused. Aziraphale continued unbidden.

“I said a million things I didn’t mean. I lied to you, and I hurt you. It was not what I wanted to do. I thought it was for the best, but I know...that’s just an excuse, and my reasoning was...well, anyway, I’m so, so sorry for what I’ve put you through. This past week and, well, these past millennia. I’ve been terribly unfair to you.”

Crowley sat up slowly as Aziraphale spoke, looking wrong-footed. “Aziraphale, angel, hey. It’s fine. You don’t need to apologize, okay? I know why you said what you said, and did what you did…it’s complicated. I get that.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, trying to steady himself as he wiped his brow. “It – it shouldn’t have been, Crowley,” he whispered, hoarse. “I always should have chosen you.”

“No,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “It’s not as simple as choosing me or choosing Heaven, okay? You were-“

“You don’t have to lie to me, Crowley.” Aziraphale interrupted in a small, weak voice. As hard as it was, he found that now that he had started, the words kept coming. He couldn’t have held them in no matter if he had tried. “We both know I don’t – I don’t deserve you.”

Crowley blinked owlishly, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and confusion. “What the buggering Heaven are you on about, angel? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I…I have done nothing but reject you, and turn away from you, as long as we have known each other,” Aziraphale replied. He fought his body for control, willing it to stay steady, to keep his frustration and sorrow and despair locked away. This wasn’t about _him._ He had hurt Crowley so much more than he now suffered; he had no right to do something stupid like cry when Crowley was the one who was hurt. “All I’ve ever done is – is push you away, _deny_ you, _lie_ to you.”

Crowley shook his head again, crestfallen. He looked at Aziraphale like he had no idea what language he was speaking. “Angel, that’s not – you know that’s not true.” He reached out a hand to place on Aziraphale’s shoulder before hesitating. Aziraphale’s heart panged painfully, knowing he was to blame for that doubt. It was his fault Crowley was unsure, _his fault._

Crowley seemed to make a decision and let his fingers fall gently, lightly, over Aziraphale’s shoulder blade, a comforting and warm weight, a grounding touch. His leg was still laying over Aziraphale’s lap, and his face was impossibly gentle. “Aziraphale, I’m not enough of a glutton for punishment to stick around if you were really so terrible to me,” he said, clearly aiming for levity. When it didn’t take, he sighed and tried again, more somberly. “Seriously, angel, you don’t have to explain yourself or apologize. Every time you said we weren’t friends or whatever, I could tell how much you hated it. I hated it, too, because I hated that Heaven was doing that to you.”

Aziraphale swallowed painfully around the growing lump in his throat, trying to shove it down. He felt so hot and he couldn’t stop shaking. Adam mustn’t have remade his corporation quite correctly – that was it. “Th-That wasn’t Heaven,” Aziraphale rasped. “I was always lying about you. Lying to _myself_ about you. But you never did that.”

“Hey.” Crowley carefully placed his free hand on Aziraphale’s other shoulder, encouraging the angel to face him, bending his leg to pull the angel closer. “I didn’t have Heaven breathing down my neck. Yeah, Hell, is controlling, but nowhere near as bureaucratic as Heaven is. I know it was more dangerous for you than it was for me. You were just trying to be careful and stay safe. There’s nothing wrong with that. Especially when they were the ones lying to you all the time.”

Instinct told Aziraphale to shove the demon off at that, to deny his words as slander, to defend Heaven with the pride and loyalty befitting an angel. But the time for that had passed. “I’ve always reminded you, again and again, that _I’m_ an angel and _you’re_ a demon,” Aziraphale whispered, “but…neither of us deserve to be what we are.”

Crowley made some sort of sound in the back of his throat, one of those ones Aziraphale had always loved interpreting. Now, he had no idea. He couldn’t think about it. He was simply tired. Drained, hollowed out. He didn’t want to fight anymore.

“L-Let’s just figure out that prophesy, yes?” Aziraphale said without giving Crowley space to reply, forcing himself to take a deep breath, even though the air seemed to scorch his throat and lungs. He blinked multiple times, centering himself, focusing on the task. “Playing with fire…erm, and choosing our faces?” He started searching through his pockets for the little slip of crisped paper, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

“Hey, angel…” Crowley looked helpless for a moment as he watched the angel tremble himself apart. He seemed to draw himself up, taking a deep breath, and a steel entered his voice that wasn’t there before. “Aziraphale. Stop.”

He froze, pressing his lips together, and blinked again. His eyes felt damp.

“Hey. Look at me, would you?”

With an effort, Aziraphale made himself meet Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel…”

His eyes overflowed, tears spilling down his cheeks in hot trails, dripping down his chin. His facial muscles contorted painfully, and his chest felt like it was burning. He buried his face in his hands.

In an instant, Crowley wrapped his arms around him, drawing his skinny legs around Aziraphale’s sides, like his lanky limbs could serve as a shield from the world and keep out everything that hurt. It should have been ridiculous, the very concept that this bony, exiled demon could possibly protect him from anything, but the weight was a comfort, and his heat felt different from the one that seemed to burn at the base of his esophagus.

Aziraphale took in long, trembling breaths, trying to wipe away the tears, but they wouldn’t stop coming. “I-I’m so sorry,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Crowley said. He sounded utterly out of his element and Aziraphale felt another pang of guilt for inconveniencing him like this. Crowley had had a long day, even if the angel didn’t know all the details of it. Crowley was the one who needed a shoulder to lean on, probably needed a hug. Aziraphale shouldn’t need anything. He was an angel of the Lord, a guardian. _You’re a lean, mean fighting machine. What are ya?_

He was pathetic. No wonder Heaven didn’t want him. Surely, Crowley would realize his mistake as he saw the angel break apart over nothing. He should’ve been able to handle this, but he couldn’t. He could do nothing but give in to the waves of pain and guilt that clasped upon him like chains.

Crowley ran soothing hands up and down his back, holding him close but not constricting, murmuring soft words and reassurances with little meaning. Aziraphale didn’t hear. It was a comfort, in a way, to have Crowley there, to have his touch and hear his voice. But, deep in his gut, he burned with so much shame. He did not want to be seen, not like this, not by Crowley.

He gasped for air but made almost no sound, choking back every cry, quieting his raspy breaths, containing the build-up of noise in this throat. He felt stuck, and he thought of Heaven, where his words were never heard, anyway. What was the point in talking at all? They never heard him. They never cared.

Crowley cared, despite himself, despite everything. And Aziraphale had done nothing to deserve that.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he found himself repeating on loop, speaking over whatever Crowley said in response. He couldn’t form proper thoughts, all that was left was feeling, and those feelings were so heavy and sour and rancid. He felt like something rotten, something that should be thrown aside.

A long time passed before Aziraphale’s breathing evened and the tears stopped. Maybe hours. He had no idea. Eventually, he simply held himself still, clutching Crowley to him like his last lifeline, his last hope. Crowley’s arms still held him close, tight, though he’d stopped trying to speak some time ago.

Crowley’s head shifted slightly, and Aziraphale felt his cheek against his scalp, through the curls that must be tickling the demon’s face. It was a tender, intimate motion, and Aziraphale’s heart broke all over again.

“You feelin’ better?” Crowley whispered after a moment.

Aziraphale didn’t know the answer to that question and pressed his face further into Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m…I don’t…it’s…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Crowley murmured. He shifted again, so that his lips were against Aziraphale’s ear next he spoke. “I’m here. You’re gonna be okay.”

It was the worst and best thing Crowley could have possibly said. “I don’t…I shouldn’t be so…”

“Nope. Stop talking. It’s my turn, you ridiculous creature.” Though his words were harsh, his tone stayed gentle. Aziraphale suddenly recognized the tone as the one he used with Warlock as a young boy, and he wondered if Crowley even noticed the Scottish lilt that now colored his accent. “All that stuff y’ just said? Bullshit. Absolutely none of that was true, alright? You’re – you’re making yourself out like some sort of villain, but you’re the _victim_ in this situation. You’ve been hurt a lot, and I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry there was never anything I could do about it, couldn’t protect you. And I’m sorry that it’s going to keep hurtin’.

“But this? Not your fault. None of it. You were _not_ the one in control, a bunch of pieces of _fucking shit_ were. You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others. You cannot blame yourself because of anything someone else did. Definitely not _to_ you.”

Aziraphale was shaking, truly shaking now, like he may very well just crumble into powder, until chunks of his being dissolved to nothingness. “Doesn’t…doesn’t change the fact that I hurt you. Over and over and over…that wasn’t Heaven, it wasn’t! That was me-“

“Being manipulated by Heaven,” Crowley whispered. “That was you, afraid, and hurting, trapped in a cycle of abuse. One that is over, now, because _you just broke it.”_

Aziraphale started to cry again, heaving for breath. Crowley fell silent, allowing the angel to sob until he was no longer on the precipice of shattering. Aziraphale felt so torn. A part of him recognized truth in what Crowley was saying. Heaven had hurt him, had manipulated him. But…they had also loved him. They had told him they loved him, at least. Everything they did, they did out of love. That was what they said. That was what they were all meant to be. What did love even mean? If that was love, why did it _hurt so much?_

“What you said earlier,” Crowley murmured, still sounding a bit Scottish. “You said I…that you don’t deserve me. But you’re wrong.” The poor demon took a moment, gathering some sort of courage. “Aziraphale. Angel. You _do_ deserve this. You deserve…you deserve _me._ ” Crowley took a shuddering breath. “If – if you want me, then I’m yours. In any way you want me.”

Aziraphale reluctantly pulled away to see Crowley’s face. They’d been mashed together for ages, maybe hours. He knew he must look a mess, but so did Crowley. The evidence of tears and exhaustion alike were clear in the red of Crowley’s eyes. Amazed, Aziraphale stared.

Crowley. Crowley held him, after this long, horrible day. After the terrible things Aziraphale had said, at the bandstand. Crowley _cared_ for him, _cherished_ him. Said kind things that the angel struggled to believe and wasn’t sure he ever could. This…this couldn’t be love. Aziraphale refused to call it that. Love was a _tainted_ word, a lowly word for what Aziraphale felt for Crowley, and Crowley for him. If love was what Heaven did, Aziraphale…he didn’t want anything to do with it.

“I…I just want you next to me,” Aziraphale said. “Can…can I ask that? Oh God, can I…I don’t know how to…”

“Please,” Crowley rasped, taking up both of the angel's hands in his own, holding them against his chest like gems. “You’ll never be too much, I swear. Just tell me if I’m…if I go too fast-“

Aziraphale shook his head, throat constricting. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Ever. You have nothing at all to be sorry for.”

“Crowley, please…I need to…you deserve to…”

The demon stared at him for a long, long moment as the angel struggled for the words to make him see. It was so hard, so hard to say after a lifetime where words were choked down until he choked himself.

Crowley suddenly inhaled deeply. He swayed closer, enough to ensure Aziraphale could focus on nothing but those earnest, yellow eyes. “Angel,” he said, voice steady. “Angel, I forgive you.”

All of Aziraphale’s breath left him at once. It was a punch, it was an ache blooming like a bruise, and he grasped for it as his lungs burned. The tenseness of his muscles loosened, and he leaned against Crowley’s body yet again. Weak, hollowed, vulnerable…and _cleansed._ He’d had no idea how badly he wanted to hear that. How badly he yearned for forgiveness, even if Crowley had absolved him of guilt. Regardless of what the demon said, how he protested, Crowley deserved that apology. Aziraphale had needed desperately to say it. He would never have forgiven himself if he hadn’t, and he couldn’t when he did…and now that he felt it was accepted, now that he felt _he_ was accepted…his strings were cut, and he fell.

This time, Crowley fell with him, leaning back into the sofa that was only mildly surprised when it discovered it was now large enough to accommodate two supernatural beings. Crowley arranged them so they lay together, Aziraphale half on top of Crowley, his face snug against the demon’s rapid heartbeat.

“Crowley, I – I want…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. There were too many ways it could end.

“I know,” Crowley said. Inexplicably, Aziraphale knew he did. “I know. Me too. But it’s been a lot. You should try to sleep for a bit, okay? You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t like sleeping.”

“It’ll help. Trust me.”

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate, closing his eyes. “Okay. I can do that.”

There was still so much more left to understand, so much more that needed to be done, to be said. This wasn’t over, with Heaven and Hell. But Aziraphale felt something swelling, a hope deep inside, a treasured spark that made it possible to believe. To have _faith._ He’d had faith in many undeserving things. In Heaven, first and foremost. But, as he lay there, allowing himself to drift away, Crowley safe against him, he also knew he had faith in Crowley.

And Crowley had faith in him. That…that was enough. For now, it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever you’re dealing with right now, whatever you’re facing and however you’re feeling about it, I have faith in you, too, dear reader. You deserve all the good in your world. Take care. <3


End file.
